


Whenever this world is cruel (To me)

by ImogenGotDrunk



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst, Aziraphale Is Soft, Crowley saved those kids fight me, Eventual Smut, Fluff, Hamlet - Freeform, Heaven & Hell, Hurt/Comfort, Idiots in Love, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Is it gay to make Hamlet one of the most famous plays in England, M/M, Much Ado About Nothing, Mutual Pining, Other, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Post-Apocalypse, Pre-Apocalypse, Romance, The Library of Alexandria, and some extra scenes from Episode 3, just because your crush offhandedly mentioned that they liked it, the fourteenth century
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-22
Updated: 2019-06-26
Packaged: 2020-05-16 14:34:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,435
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19320136
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ImogenGotDrunk/pseuds/ImogenGotDrunk
Summary: The thing is, Aziraphale has discovered after all these years, when it really comes down to it, Crowley’s rather bad at being… well, bad. Aziraphale normally prides himself on his way with words, but in this instance, he can’t think of a more eloquent way of putting it. Stripped down to its simplest terms, when push comes to shove, the demon, by definition, just isn’t very demonic at all.Maybe what Crowley had said on the walls of Eden, many, many years ago, carried some merit after all. Wouldn’t it be funny if he did the good thing.It still isn’t particularly funny, per say. Not in Aziraphale’s opinion. But it’s… something. Something that he’s gradually coming to consider being not, necessarily, a cause for heavenly concern.





	1. You can't kill kids

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm just testing the waters, really - no, not the tetchy Almighty’s flood waters - so the next chapters will be longer if people like what they read. Good Omens is my favourite book, and the Prime show is getting so much recognition, it's crazy. I wanted in on it.
> 
> [This first chapter idea came from [@rainydaydecaf's post,](https://rainydaydecaf.tumblr.com/post/185677767164/aziraphale-hanging-out-on-noahs-ark-watching-the) because yeah, same.]

3004 BC

**Noah's Ark**

 

_"What about the kids, you can’t kill kids.”_

And from the looks of things, the Divine hadn’t gotten the chance to in the end.

Considering the vast variety of species onboard – lions, tigers, bears, a singular unicorn dozing by a small bale of hay – a large serpent fits into the spectacle rather nicely. Admittedly, the children do not. They’re all too... small, and upright; two-legged with gangly limbs, and plain cloth covering them from head to toe. Some of the larger cats are eying them up, the female cheetah’s wide-eyed stare not dissimilar from the way she'd been inspecting the pair of antelopes as they’d boarded.

But Aziraphale senses no immediate danger to the humans. They’re all quite safe; Crawly’s coiled around half a dozen or so of them, the sheer length and size of him alone keeping the more curious carnivores at bay.

He hisses a threat when one of the hyenas creeps too close, and the poor creature scurries back to the far end of the deck to cower beside its mate.

Aziraphale finds himself smiling, despite himself. “So this is where you’ve been.”

Snakes are supposed to be the sneaky ones;  _sly as a serpent_  and all that. So the way that Crawly jerks, caught entirely off-guard, makes Aziraphale feel a touch guilty. Crawly's head's snapped up to him, and his pupils dilate in an expressive blend of alarm, annoyance, and all-encompassing embarrassment.

“Look, I… It’s not what it looks like.”

 _Oh, my dear_ , almost escapes Aziraphale's throat at the rawness of it all – Crawly, curled fast around a group of sleeping **[1]**  infants, mortified and defensive – but he doubts it would be received well. So he only allows his smile to widen a fraction as he steps forward a few paces, further into the lamplight.

“I’m sure it’s not,” he says instead, and he bends down to place his palm against the closest child’s forehead. They slip from the clutches of their nightmare into a more peaceful sleep. All the while, Crawly scrambles for his explanation. Aziraphale waits patiently. **[2]**

“Technically… well,  _logically_ , when you think about it, I mean… the Almightly obviously wants these kids dead, what with their capacity for evil and... yeah, so by… because I’ve, y’know, I brought them all  _here_  and now they’re  _not_  dead, I’ve thwarted the Divine plan.” Crawly clears his throat. "Obviously. One more point for Hell, and all that.”

“Indeed,” Aziraphale agrees. He doesn’t point out that one of the youngest children has been cuddling the tip of Crawly’s tail to its chest for some time now. “Well, how silly of me for not taking this into account. Really, very clever of you, I have to say.”

All of a sudden, and to whatever capacity a snake _can_ become tense, Crawly does precisely that. “You’re not going to... I dunno, get rid of them or anything, are you-”

”Oh-  _no_ ,” Aziraphale hurries to assure, and then, because he’s answered far, far too quickly, adds, “No, I believe my lot has been thoroughly thwarted, this time around. I‘m not sure we _can_ do anything, really. I’m afraid we’ll have to accept our defeat with grace on this occasion.”

And to whatever capacity a snake _can_ relax, Crawly does. “Yes. Right. Well then, there you have it. I’ve done my bit, end of discussion.”

No longer fearing that the demon might up and slink away at any second – that might wake the children, and he doesn’t want that – Aziraphale comes to sit on the floor among them all. He shoos away a viper that’s begun winding its way towards one of the girls' ankles.

He doesn’t ask about the parents. Something tells him that Crawly won’t answer. Aziraphale already knows the answer, anyway.  _Divine plan_ , he'd kept telling himself, as the Ark began to sway in the rising waters. _Ineffable_ , he'd recited, when every inch of the surrounding land was washed away _. "Cleansed,”_  as Gabriel had put it.

Crawly had said,  _“Bollocks,”_ and the bothering thing is, whenever he _lets_ himself think about it, Aziraphale is relatively certain which response he agrees with.

“So,” Crawly pipes up after several minutes of the Ark rocking gently and the children’s soft snores and some subtle, but not unnoticed, serpentine manoeuvres to make the lower half of his body more comfortable for those who were dozing there. “This rainbow you were talking about, any idea when that’ll be popping into existence? Sooner the better, if you ask me. Can’t say I’m too jazzed about hanging out in a cramped, smelly wooden boat with annoying creatures running around making noise.”

“Really, Crawly, they’re animals. What else can you expect them to do about it?”

“I was talking about the kids.”

Aziraphale tuts his disapproval. "Come, now."

“The animals too, though, now that you mention it.  _All creatures great and small_ , what a stupid idea. There are elephants lumbering somewhere around here. Bloody  _elephants_! I’ll tell you, I don’t envy the guy who’s on clean-up duty around here.”

Crawly continues to complain, and keep the children entertained with stories, and make trouble for Noah and his poor family, and hiss at any predator who wanders too close to the smaller humans, and just basically exist as this odd and endearing contradiction who’s company Aziraphale has the pleasure of keeping **[3]** for the next twelve months.

On the second month in the year 3005BC, God sends Aziraphale to fetch Noah the leaf of an Ash tree, so that the humans know the flood is coming to an end. And not a second too soon. By that point, even Aziraphale is beginning to see the ramifications of sharing living space with twoof every animal **[4]** on Earth. Only, once he gets around to actually seeking out the nearest patch of land, he can only seem to find an olive tree. He panics and returns with a small branch from that instead. It doesn’t seem to make much of a difference, and the Almighty doesn’t mention it so Aziraphale assumes he’s gotten away with that one as well. **[5]**

Crawly watches the final child step foot safely onto The New Earth **[6]**. And then, and only then, does he slither away between the rocks of Ararat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1 And very much alive, he might add.
> 
> 2 . Patience is a virtue, after all. Enjoying the sight of a flustered serpent probably isn’t, but Aziraphale’s quite sure it isn’t a sin either, so he’s optimistic that he’d be excused for that one. 
> 
> 3 'Or whose company he has to tolerate,' Aziraphale will report, to Gabriel or Uriel, or whoever drops in to check in next. 
> 
> 4 Minus a unicorn, of course. 
> 
> 5 He was still waiting for any word regarding a maybe, very possibly missing flaming sword, but all had been quiet on that front so far.
> 
> 6 A Libra, this time. God had come to decide that perhaps a Scorpio wasn’t the wisest pick, first time around.


	2. You're a Demon, that's what you do

48 BC

**Alexandria**

 

Julius Caesar’s proclivity towards the dramatics has certainly been in full flame this evening. And not just figuratively. The fires have spread from the fleet, through to the dockyards and storehouses, and part of the city has been steadily burning for the last few hours.

The Library of Alexandria very likely won’t survive.

Aziraphale has been strictly ordered not to interfere. **[1]**

Divine plan, and such.

Around forty-thousand scrolls lost, by his count.

Ineffable.

Crawly finds him stood amongst the rubble. Aziraphale is entirely unsure what to do with himself, now that the blaze here is beginning to die down. He couldn't face venturing over to the Library itself; what little is left of the storehouse here, where the scrolls were being kept, is telling enough. Seeing the empty space where the Library used to be standing is something Aziraphale decides he doesn’t currently want _or_ need.

The fires have probably reached it by now. Within the last few minutes, in fact.

He could clean up a little, he supposes; perform a minor miracle or two to save the poor Alexandrian residents the trouble of having to get their brooms out tomorrow morning.

But there are scraps of blackened pages at his feet, and the smell of burning parchment is everywhere, and his heart really isn’t in it.

“Didn’t realise you were in the city,” Crawly says by way of greeting, navigating his way over the charred and crumbled walls. He sounds careful, cautious. **[2]** Aziraphale has his back to him, so he can’t tell for certain, but he _sounds_ cautious. As if he could know how much those scrolls, how much that Library, meant. “Been here long, have you?”

The whole evening has really been quite trying, and Aziraphale isn’t in the mood for company, to be perfectly honest. He isn’t proud of himself for it, but he snaps. Just a little.

“Don’t you think you’ve done enough for one night?!” It comes out a great deal harsher than he means it to.

And Crawly doesn’t blink very often, but he does now. A quick, taken aback thing that makes his forehead crease and his shoulders stiffen. “Wha– oh, of course, of course,” he throws his arms out, “this _had_ to have been me, of course! Oh yes, it just ticks all those demonic boxes, doesn’t it? Fire, death, smoke rising up to the Heavens as a great big _fuck you_ to the Almighty, right?”

Aziraphale must look truly wretched, because Crawly takes a moment to pause and squint at Aziraphale’s face – smeared with ash, he can feel it all over his skin – and the hard lines of his expression all of a sudden smooth away into something softer.  Something resembling sympathy. _Not pity_ , a part of Aziraphale is stunned to see _. Not pity, at all._

Sympathy _._

Crawly sighs, biting on the inside of his lip, and then says, “This wasn’t me, angel,” in a far, far gentler voice.

Aziraphale suddenly feels as wretched as he must look.

“My side, I mean, we didn’t…” Crawly trails off, gesturing vaguely at the destruction around them; bits here and there still smoking, the edges the debris still shining with embers. “From what I can tell, it was just… them. The humans. Or,” he adds as an afterthought, “ _one_ human, anyway. This Caesar fellow, I’ve gotta say, I’m not a fan. I thought he was all right to start off with, but he’s gotten a bit… I dunno.”

“Dramatic,” Aziraphale supplies weakly.

“Yeah. Bit of a bastard, really. In the end.”

Aziraphale nods; takes a breath that he doesn’t need, and lets a pair of shoulders that don’t technically belong to him sag. For whatever it’s worth, he does feel a little better for the company, now that he considers it. A little less alone, at any rate. “I apologise for… presuming. Its been a rather long night.”

Crawly shrugs. “S’all right. They do like a bit of fire, Downstairs, so I get it. Easy to presume that sort of thing.”

“Still. It was very rude of me.”

Crawly snorts, before he takes a proper glance around. The sky still has an ominous, red hue to it, and the clouds are still darkened with heavy smoke. “Suppose we ought to move along. Might look a bit odd, two people standing around and not, y’know, choking to death or burning alive or anything. Humans get suspicious about stuff like that.” **[3]**

Aziraphale swallows, and takes another, long look at what remains of the storehouse. He could have saved _something_ ; just one scroll, a single book, Heaven probably wouldn’t have even noticed, and it wouldn’t be nearly enough to get him into any real trouble. He wished he’d thought to do it earlier. It’s far too late now, of course, and Crawly has a point. It won’t do either of them any good to be caught standing, unharmed, in the aftermath of a great fire.

“Yes,” Aziraphale answers eventually, trying to grant some semblance of a smile to the demon, who returns it with an equally weak attempt. “Yes, you’re right. We should be getting on our way. I imagine it’s almost dawn.”

When dawn actually arrives, they’re perched atop a building on the opposite side of the city; facing the sunrise to the east, their backs stubbornly to the devastation in the west. Aziraphale decides then, definitively, that the company is most welcome after all. Crawly may not care about the scrolls, as such, but the way that he, too, fervently avoids looking behind them as they talk makes something kindred – a warmth far calmer, far kinder, than that night’s fires – take root somewhere inside the angel. **[4]** They speak about nothing in particular, but it makes Aziraphale smile even when, at present, he doesn’t feel he has a great deal to smile about.

Several hours past the dawn, Crawly has not long disappeared to wherever it is he disappears to, when Aziraphale learns that the Library of Alexandria still stands, in spite of some unavoidable damage from the heat. The fires had stopped, by some miracle not of Aziraphale’s making, exactly six inches from the stone steps leading up to the entryway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1 Gabriel had been quite clear. ‘Let Caesar have at it, and if a few thousand books crisp up in the meantime, then what’s the harm? The humans will write some more, they always do.’
> 
> 2 The last time they had seen each other had been around 1184 BC. Crawly suspected the angel might still be slightly put out by that Trojan Horse business. Personally, he thought it had been rather clever.
> 
> 3 Crawly had learned that the hard way, when one of young Cleopatra’s attendants almost shrieked down the pyramids after seeing a large, black serpent in conversation with their Queen. A rather pleasant conversation, in fact, before the interruption.
> 
> 4 Roots grow, and spread, and act as a source for a great deal of life in the Universe. Angels aren't an exception. What Aziraphale felt for the Serpent of Eden in this moment would transcend Time, and last for beyond an eternity. He, of course, didn't realise this just yet, and he wouldn't begin to suspect until the year 1941.  
> And Aziraphale would, almost another century after that, reflect that a lot of his more significant revelations came about whenever the situation involved books. He'd try and pinpoint the significance of this for exactly six minutes, unsuccessfully, and he'd give up trying altogether when Crowley suggests he stop thinking so hard and come back to bed.  
> What he'd never discover is that there's nothing significant about it, and there never has been. It is, and always has been, nothing more than a coincidence.


	3. He thought briefly of the fourteenth century

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now I've found the sort of tone I'm going for, it'll probably get way more shippy after this one.  
> Can I hear a wa-hoo.

The End of the 1300s

**Birmingham, England**

By the time the fourteenth century **[1]** draws to its close, Aziraphale has reached several conclusions.

Firstly, no one, under any circumstances, should have come to the decision that messing with the Mongolian Empire was, to use a direct quote, ‘A Grand Idea’.

Secondly, that Marco Polo chap certainly gets around.

And thirdly, the only remotely Evil **[2]** aspectof the century that could be directly traced back to Crowley was The Great Western Schism. And that, according to the demon, was an accident.

“It was an accident! I said about five words to those cardinals, and all Hell breaks loose. Figuratively speaking, obviously.”

“Five words can make a great deal of difference when spoken in earshot of the right people,” Aziraphale had pointed out. “Or the wrong people, come to that.”

Crowley had shaken his head. “I just pointed out that there were no decent Roman candidates, so why not take a gamble on a Neapolitan instead. Seemed like harmless advice, at the time. How was I supposed to know they’d choose Bartolomeo fucking Prignano?”

“Cardinals do like to gamble.” It was a generalisation, of course, and not a generous one. But Aziraphale was honestly getting a bit tired of all the Nepotism and Hedonism and other things ending in -ism by this point. “So what you’re essentially saying is that you, truly, didn’t suspect there would be two more elections, following? You didn’t hatch any sort of demonic plan to spark a _political-posing-as-religious_ three-way rivalry that would span almost forty years? Because I have to tell you, my dear, it just seems a bit unlikely from where I’m sitting. It has caused an awful lot of trouble.”

Crowley had peered at him over his lenses, unimpressed. “It’s the God’s honest– Satan’s hone– Ugh.” He tried again. “It’s the truth, Angel. You know me, I’m not big on politics.” He’d taken a long, long gulp from his flagon, and Aziraphale realised that the matter was closed. “Not my kind of trouble.”

There was truth to _that_ , at the very least.

The thing is, Aziraphale has discovered after all these years, when it really comes down to it, Crowley’s rather bad at being… well, bad. Aziraphale normally prides himself on his way with words, but in this instance, he can’t think of a more eloquent way of putting it. Stripped down to its simplest terms, when push comes to shove, the demon, by definition, just isn’t very demonic at all.

Maybe what Crowley had said on the walls of Eden, many, many years ago, carried some merit after all. Wouldn’t it be funny if he did the good thing.

It still isn’t particularly funny, per say. Not in Aziraphale’s opinion. But it’s… something. Something that he’s gradually coming to consider being not, necessarily, a cause for heavenly concern.

And what with all the other bits of Evil here and there **[3]** , Crowley’s demonic activities are few and far between in comparison.

They’re now strolling very near to Bosworth Field; what will, by 1485, be the final battleground of the War of the Roses **[4]**. Crowley is exactly three metres away from where William Stanley will betray Richard the Third to their enemies.

“So,” Crowley says, and Aziraphale knows the start of a Temptation when he hears one. “The Arrangement. Still game? I know there hasn’t been much cause to meet up and discuss recently, and I know there’s a lot to think about, what with our respective head offices and everything. But I still stand by what I said, they’re never gonna check. And it’s worked out so far, right? We’ve done a little trial run, and hey, what d’you know, I was right. Might as well… I dunno, keep making life down hear a bit easier for ourselves, eh? A bit more enjoyable.”

Aziraphale knows, probably better than anyone in the Universe, that Crowley has enjoyed exactly _none_ of the fourteenth century.

Part of him does want to point out that this is their Job; it doesn’t have to be _enjoyable_ , so long as they do everything they’re assigned with doing, and they do it well.

Although the other part of him - the part that desperately misses the quiet gleam in Crowley’s eyes and cocky sway in his step, and has been missing it for almost an entire century – is apparently a fair bit stronger than the former part today.

“I already agreed, two-hundred years ago, and no, I haven’t changed my mind about it. I’m still… game, as you say.” Aziraphale is pleased to hear that he sounds appropriately disapproving whilst he says it. Not that it makes any kind of difference; Crowley’s grin is self-satisfied, either way. “But don’t think I’ll be coming to find you every time something might be a little inconvenient for me. I’m still an Angel. _No_ miracle is inconvenient.”

Crowley’s smile becomes a tad more reptilian. “What, even the peasants’ revolt?”

“That was different,” Aziraphale insists, his voice taking on a defensive edge that he really isn’t proud of. “Like you say, it was a _revolt_. Revolts aren’t ethereal. They’re more… more…” He grasps for the word.

“Chaotic.”

“Chaotic, yes, thank you. But chaotic for a good reason. It was for a good cause, in the end.” Aziraphale pauses, glimpsing at Crowley sidelong for a while before deciding he probably _should_ say something in the way of gratitude. Without it sounding like actual gratitude, of course. “You did do a rather good job with it.”

“Well, that was the point, wasn’t it,” Crowley mutters. “To do a _good_ job. Besides, needed to pay you back for the Treaty of Berwick in… what was it, thirteen-fifty-eight?”

“Thirteen-fifty-seven.”

Crowley snaps his fingers. “Thaaaat was it. Good old Scotland, still independent. Very bad job of you, couldn’t have done it better myself.”

Aziraphale deems it wise not to answer. If he acknowledges The Arrangement any more than strictly necessary, it might draw unwanted attention. Although, the peasants’ revolt deserved some form of acknowledgement, admittedly. It can’t have been easy, riling up that many people.

As it turns out, Gabriel is absolutely thrilled with him for that one. Crowley cackles himself off his chair when Aziraphale tells him so in 1402.

Likewise, Crowley earns a commendation for The Great Schism in 1404. Though he seems rather embarrassed about it **[5]** , so Aziraphale – now that he knows the whole thing was an accident to begin with – decides not to bring it up again unless Crowley does so first.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1 A Century that, similarly to the ducks in St James’ Park, whenever mentioned, Crowley will develop a Pavlovian response to. A grimace; and then a shudder; and then a long mantra of “No, no, no,” before he’ll try to shake the knowledge that the Fourteenth Century ever existed from his mind.
> 
> 2 And even then, it was hardly what you’d call Evil. Unless you’re of the opinion that politics in general falls into that category, in which case this particular papal schism was Evil Incarnate.
> 
> 3 Famine had been working overtime between 1315 and 1317, and War would have her work cut out for her for at least another thirty years; all the while, she’d made sure the longbow had risen in popularity, as a little side project. And Pestilence, very soon to be renamed Pollution, had made themselves well-known in the late 1340s.  
> Death, of course, was everywhere.
> 
> 4 Crowley jokes about the War of the Roses in 2027, when he catches Aziraphale reading about it for the third or fourth time. “Funny if Heaven and Hell worked like that, eh,” he’ll say, slinking down against Aziraphale’s side. He’ll do a lot of slinking around in the bookshop those days, particularly in the summer. “If all it took to end the War was an Angel and a Demon getting together.”  
> Aziraphale will smile indulgently, but point out that there would be no real need to bother about something like that anymore. “We’re on or own side now,” he’ll say, and where once that scared him, it will make the sky a little less cloudy, the day a little warmer. Stuff like that tends to happens when an Angel in the general vicinity is content as can be.
> 
> 5 The Great Schism turns out to be nothing in the face of the Spanish Inquisition in 1478. That commendation is even larger, and Crowley, confused and still a mite bleary from his nap, blinks at his superiors, stutters out a “Thanks very much,” and proceeds to go straight back to sleep as quickly as any respectable being would in the face of unwanted and unwelcome responsibility.


	4. Still prefer the funny ones

1602

**London**

 

Having been in Edinburgh for the past year and a half, performing blessing and temptation alike, Aziraphale’s return to England feels a little like coming Home **[1]**.

He had expected to hear the odd mention of Hamlet here and there, of course. After all, Crowley’s never been one to shirk on a promise or leave a job half-done. For a demon, his work ethic is actually quite remarkable.

Aziraphale _hadn't_ expected the entirety of Hamlet to be in publication, soon to be printed in quarto edition. Nor, when he walks into the Globe Theatre that evening, had he expected quite _this_ many people to be in attendance.

Hamlet, he soon discovers, is the talk of the entire city. Apparently it had been performed in front of Queen Elizabeth herself not two months prior.

“Ah! You again, my helpful audience member,” Shakespeare greets him backstage. “You know, I was worried about this one, what with the rather thin crowds to start with, but by Jove! I could never have imagined such a reception! Since night one, it’s been an absolute hit! Hasn’t it, Burbage?”

“Mm-hm,” Burbage answers, non-committal.

Shakespeare laughs, clasping his hands together. “You know, your friend– chap with the red hair, he gave me some jolly good advice, as well. Very insightful stuff.”

Still a little too deep in shock to offer much in the way of a response, Aziraphale asks Burbage **[2]** where he might begin looking.

He finds the demon in one of the taverns **[3]** a few blocks away.

“How’d it go? Scotland.”

“Fine.”

Crowley looks at him for a moment, expectant. “Just fine? No trouble, no difficulties, nothing?”

“It was– fine. All fine. Blessing and tempting, all absolutely fine.”

“Right. Good. Yeah, all fine here, too. Although, I’ll tell you something, that James the Sixth I’ve been hearing about is really starting to get on Old Liz’s nerves. The woman won’t shut up about him–”

“Crowley, Hamlet’s the most popular play in England.”

The demon frowns at him. “Well. Yeah,” he says, after a long moment has passed. “I thought you liked Hamlet.”

He sounds so… _hesitant._  Something in Aziraphale’s chest feels like it’s being suffocated.

“No, _no_ , my dear, I don’t mean to–” Aziraphale closes his mouth. Opens it. Closes it, and tries again. “It's just that, I thought I'd only _implied_ that it might be nice- a little confidence boost, perhaps, for Shakespeare and the actors, if just a few more people came to see it.”

“Yeaaah,” Crowley repeats slowly, not at all sounding as though he understands. “And now everyone in London’s seen it. Y’know, the peasants, the gentry. The Queen, even. She came, oh, I think four– five weeks ago–”

“Yes, I… Yes. So I heard.”

Crowley nods, still frowning. He doesn’t understand. “Right. So. You did me a favour, with Edinburgh and all that. And I stayed here and…” He makes a vague gesture with one hand. “Ta-da. Hamlet **[4]**. Uncles murdering their brothers, a nice suicide, some ghosts, all that tragic nonsense, so. You’re welcome.”

Aziraphale nods, as well. Keeps nodding, even when the barkeep approaches and asks him what he’d like to drink. He can’t seem to actually stop nodding for the rest of the evening, through which Crowley talks and talks, once he realises that Aziraphale’s having one of his confused stupors **[5]**. He talks about the court and Queen Elizabeth’s spies and the new fashions coming over from Paris. Aziraphale doesn’t actually hear all that much.

Hamlet may well go on to be one of the greatest plays of all time. He didn’t _ask_ Crowley to do it. He just wanted poor old Shakespeare to have more of an audience. Crowley doesn’t even like the tragedies. He likes the funny ones…

He likes the funny ones.

Crowley disappears for the next ten years **[6]**. When Aziraphale finally catches word that he’s in London again, around February, 1612, everything has come into place very nicely.

“Angel, if you’re gonna make me sit through another one of Bill Shakespeare’s depressing monologues, I swear to Satan himself–”

“No, no, you’ll _like_ this one! I remember you saying,” Aziraphale insists, leading him excitedly by the ruff of his sleeve, to the box in the upper-right corner of the Globe. “In fifteen-hundred-and-ninety-nine, I think. I remember,” although now, glancing back at Crowley’s expression, he’s starting to feel a bit flustered. “You _said_ , Much Ado About Nothing had a lot of work to go, but you thought it had a great deal of potential.”

Crowley’s expression brightens slightly, in recognition of the name. Aziraphale feels relief wash over him. He was worried for a moment that the last few years had been a complete dud; perhaps he’d been mistaken and had been thinking of the wrong play all along. But apparently not, thank the Almighty herself.

And, to Aziraphale’s unmeasurable delight, Crowley does appear to be enjoying himself, for the most part. He likes Beatrice, evidently; Aziraphale certainly had his work cut out for him, helping Shakespeare polish off _her_ character. Crowley leans in to whisper that Hero is still a bit of a drip, but Aziraphale doesn’t take that to heart; she and Claudio were never meant to be the focal point of the play, anyway.

 _‘I can see he’s not in your good books,’_ says the messenger.  
_‘No,’_ Beatrice answers. _‘And if he were, I would burn my library.’_

Crowley laughs aloud at that part, and Aziraphale can’t, for the life of him, stop smiling after that.

 _‘Ha! Against my will I am sent to bid thee to come to dinner,’_ Benedick smirks. _‘There’s a double meaning in that.’_

Aziraphale hadn’t been too proud of keeping that particular line. It was a little too crude, for his tastes. But it makes Crowley laugh again, as he’d hoped it would, so he supposes he can always blame that one on Shakespeare. The man does have a penchant for poetically disguised rude jokes.

_‘I had rather hear my dog bark at a crow, than a man swear he love me.’_

Crowley leans back in, grinning. “Reminds me of something Liz would’ve said, you know.”

Aziraphale knows, of course he does. That’s why he’d added it. Crowley had been fond of their late Queen; the kind of fond that Aziraphale hadn’t seen from the demon since Cleopatra’s days. It didn’t get any easier, watching those more memorable humans come and go like that.

_‘For which of my bad parts didst thou first fall in love with me?’_

The atmosphere Shifts **[7]** , all of a sudden. Something about the way the line is spoken hits far, far too close to home, and Crowley’s smile falters. Aziraphale, in answer, has the sudden urge to reach over and take his hand. It comes out of nowhere, and it’s completely unbidden, but his fingers abruptly ache to do so.

_‘Friendship is constant in all things, save in the office and affairs of love. Therefore, all hearts in love use their own tongues.’_

The words had, on paper, seemed so guileless and so human and so utterly far removed from either of them, that Aziraphale hadn’t really given them a second thought. _Friendship, hearts, own secret tongues_ , it just all seemed a very Shakespeare, playwrighty thing to include.

Now, though, after hearing it aloud - and after talking above Eden, of course, and taking care of the children on the Ark, and having Oysters in Rome, and watching Hamlet, and sitting beside Crowley during Much Ado About Nothing, and coming up to _six-thousand years_ of being _beside Crowley_ for all of this - Aziraphale realises.

 

 _Oh_.

 

_Oh, dear._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1 Home, for Aziraphale, has been becoming gradually narrower century by century. At The Beginning, Home was Heaven, respectively. By 500 AD, Home was Earth; more precisely, the continent Europe. By the 1200s, England. By 1600, London.  
> When the twenty-first century comes around, Home will be a bookshop in the middle of Soho, where very few books are actually sold, and where an alarming amount of wine and hot cocoa are consumed on a weekly basis.  
> After The Very First Day of The Rest of Their Lives, Home will be more a person than any specific place. Or a person-shaped being, at the very least.
> 
> 2 Aziraphale could be slow in such matters, admittedly, but he wasn’t stupid. Richard Burbage carried his head high, and he had the right kind of blend of brass and intelligence. The kind that Crowley liked. Aziraphale had seen the way the demon had smiled at him on stage.
> 
> 3 It was literally called The Tavern, and still is to this very day. The owner rather liked the dry humour of that one. He wasn’t to know that this little joke would begin a long-running trend of naming businesses in the same manner. ‘You’re opening a coffee shop? You should call it The Coffee Shop, then. It’ll be funny.’ ‘You specifically sell nothing but handmade dolls in the shape of well-known celebrities? Name it Handmade Dolls in the Shape of Well-known Celebrities. What a riot.’
> 
> 4 The only adaptation of Hamlet that Crowley will ever enjoy – having sat through the original play one-hundred-and-thirty-eight times to make sure the actors were really getting it right – is Disney’s The Lion King. And even then, it will only be because the songs are catchy.
> 
> 5 They happen more often than one would expect from an angel, who are thought to be all-knowing beings. Only God – and a witch called Agnes Nutter, in a way – is actually all-knowing. Aziraphale is what you’d call all-worrying, which means: one who is always worried about something at any moment in time.  
> At this particular time, he's worrying that maybe Crowley had been a better friend to him than Aziraphale had ever been to the demon. 
> 
> 6 He spends the time in England, mostly, and does flit back to London every once in a while. Without Liz around after 1603, the upper classes just seem to become a bit dull. 1605 is an eventful one, though, and Crowley and Aziraphale are never entirely sure whether the gunpowder plot was foiled by Upstairs or Down. Either way, Guy Fawkes came pretty damn close.
> 
> 7 Most mortals don't tend to notice when this happens. These Shifts occur whenever an Ethereal (or Occult) being becomes overwhelmed by the force of their own emotions.  
> This was a rather rare case, admittedly, as both Crowley and Aziraphale experienced the exact same thing at the exact same moment. Outside, it began raining, and inside, every human in the theatre shivered, as though someone was whispering a secret against the backs of their necks.


End file.
